Meditations of a Mouse
by Vincent the Sheep
Summary: In which Mike the crooning mouse briefly contemplates his life.


The roar of a sports car engine was one of the little things in life that Mike could appreciate. It gave off a feeling of release, freedom-in a sense-that only one with certain money, status, or power had. At least, that was what he delusioned himself enough to believe he possessed.

As he sped down the highway, all the mouse could think about was what had been behind him. A singing competition, run-ins with a local mafia, and a few brushes with death coming from both-it had been a stressful week, and Mike needed to get the hell out of there for a while.

Mike looked over to the gal sitting in the passenger seat next to him. A young beautiful mouse, who looked too innocent for the world he got her tangled up in. At that moment, she gave him a curious look.

"How are ya?" He asked her.

"I'm fine." Came the short reply with a short smile. As pretty as she was, words didn't come by her often, and Mike wasn't sure if that bothered him or not. Gorgeous and mysterious, or guarded and silent, they were two faces of the coin that presented the lovely lady, and it was up to Mike to guess which side he was looking at.

But Mike always knew he was a pessimist-a half glass empty kind of guy.

"Something's bothering you, you don't gotta lie to me…" Mike slowed down the car, preparing for an unpleasant conversation.

"Really, I'm fine. I appreciate the concern…." His companion shook her head. "It's just..."

"What, what is it?"

She sighed. "...We're in a lot of trouble, aren't we?"

That was certainly true, but Mike wasn't going to let her realise that. "What? Nah, nah, we'll be fine, doll. Really, this will all blow over in no time! You'll see..."

"But how do you know that? Those bears aren't gonna forget our faces! Sure we got away now, but they could always be following us, and I'll never be able to go back to that club-"

"Hey, hey! Calm down, sweetheart!"

The worried look he had noticed from the beginning now intensified. "What are we gonna do, Mike?"

Panic in her tone persuaded Mike to soften his own. "Listen, it'll be fine, uh…"

Mike had a horrifying realisation. He had completely lost track of the gal's name, and the harder he tried to draw from his memory, the more he remembered he had only met the girl on two or three different occasions.

Now it was her turn to ask questions. "What's wrong?"

Mike shook his head. He didn't feel very conversational anymore. "I'm just...tired, sugar. Don't mind me..."

"We can pull over if you-"

"Forget about it, I'm fine!" He cut her off.

Mike let out a heavy breath, and switched on the radio to fill the silence. Jazz music from his favourite station filled the silence between him and his companion. Wind blew through the open top vehicle and into his fur. Night air, combined with the sweet scales of Coltrane, took Mike back to better, and worse, memories of his life.

Music, it had always been about the music. His goals, ambitions, passions, tragedies, his _life_ and _identity_ had been molded by music, to the point where he couldn't let it go even if he wanted to. Only occasionally, like in the predicament he currently found himself in, did Mike ever question his life choices, but even then, that hardly had anything to do with his music.

His family, as far as he recalled, may not have been musicians, but they had enough of a love for it to raise Mike accordingly. He couldn't remember the first artist or track he had listened to, but Sinatra had been his first love. The track "My Way", for one thing, still made him more emotional than he was willing to admit. It was a miracle, and a relief, that he hadn't broken down in front of that audience.

As a result, singing, or crooning, had become Mike's base passion. But it was only a matter of time before he tried pursuing another instrument. When he was six, he gave the piano a crack, taking lessons for over two years, before he decided that classical piano was too tedious to practice, and that Jazz was entirely new ballpark all together. Also, a piano his size was never easy to come by anywhere, and it was a miracle that he could find another rodent with a similar interest in music to teach him in the first place.

Mike had nothing to say of his academic life, nor did he care to talk about it. He cared much more about the friends he made than the grades he got, but neither venture had been particularly fruitful. He may have been bullied once or twice in elementary, but a burst of anger and an uppercut had solved that problem. From then on teachers and students alike were nervous to befriend or even approach him, but Mike didn't care then. He still didn't now.

The Lincoln School of Music, now that had been interesting. A few years of his post high-school life focussing purely on music was enough to tempt him into enrolling. It would allow him to follow his passions in a more...professional sense, or so he thought.

Mike's first audition to get in had failed, and he remembered that day well enough to want to forget it. He'd known the second he finished singing that he wouldn't get in, he was good at reading an audience, and those judges were less than impressed. Learning a song and practicing weeks before, only to fail, had been gutting. As auditions were annual, Mike's only remaining option had appeared to be community college-and he knew he'd never face that.

So when his parents asked him if he got in, Mike had told them 'of course'. They asked about the acceptance letter, but Mike created the excuse that the auditioners already told him that he had been accepted. They believed it, hugged him proudly, congratulating him for the talent he didn't have.

That had been his first, and only regretful, great lie in his entire life. The next year passed with his family blindly thinking that he was in a prestigious school for gifted musicians. Mike, with the guilt of his elaborate lie, increased his practicing exponentially-determined not to fail. Weekly singing lessons, combined a part time job of dishwashing at the local Rodent Cafe, it had been an intense year for himself.

But it was worth it. When the next year's auditions rolled by, Mike gave what he still believes was one of the best performances of his entire life. The judges, who probably hadn't remembered him from the last time, had been moved near to tears. Mike's song had, of course, been "My Way", the number that always made himself emotional when he sang it alone.

Mike didn't show his acceptance letter to anyone, especially his family, but he treasured it like nothing else. He still had the damn thing in his inner suit pocket, for safekeeping.

Getting into the School had been one matter, getting through it had been another.

Picking up the tenor saxophone had been initially frustrating, but it eventually gave him a freedom that paralleled his singing. Improvisation, in the jazz world, was essential to survive. It also gave him extra credit for learning a second instrument-convenient, if anything.

There were also some interesting people in music school, types who didn't always follow the rules, and the complete opposite. Mike rarely liked playing in groups, but at Lincoln it was mandatory, forcing him to socialize, the horror of it. He could hardly say that he made any friends, but there were folks he could tolerate, at least.

Money only became an issue after Mike left home to live by himself. Lincoln didn't have dorms, so he resorted to an apartment with cheap rent and even cheaper facilities. From an early point money became a valued part of Mike's lifestyle. Washing dishes would only make him so much, and Mike wanted more than just what he needed, he desired luxury.

Street busking had made his saxophone skills useful, but it was a cold world out there. Mike's diminutive size certainly didn't help to draw attention-but he played loudly enough for some to notice.

That was when Mike knew that he needed to resort to other methods. He'd learned how to play poker when he was six, but he learned how to cheat when he was ten. After some practice with his college acquaintances, Mike had become good enough to make a small dishonest earning in real-paid games. Sometimes he was caught, but that didn't matter-he'd just find another place that'd take him later on.

Four years of practice, playing, studying and cheating, Mike had graduated Lincoln with a piece of paper stating his skill and a small amount to spend for himself. He prided himself on his degree, proof that he actually accomplished something in his life. When the ad for Buster Moon's singing competition was made public, Mike had seen another opportunity to make himself a greater mouse, a greater man of himself.

Now where was he? A fancy car, an Uptown Girl whose name he couldn't recall, and a crippling debt to a deadly mafia-all Mike had acquired in the past few days.

It hadn't all been bad, though. In the past week Mike had gained more recognition than he had in the past couple years, his talent finally spotlighted. Even more surprisingly, Mike had made good acquaintances with the folks from the competition-but could he call them friends?

Could they even call him a friend?

Thinking back, Mike hadn't been the nicest person to any of them-in fact, he was arrogant enough to think himself better of it. Mike hadn't known any of them could sing that well, let alone as well as he could. He judged a book by its cover, the same kind of thinking he hated having others put on him.

Perhaps, Mike resolved, if he saw any of them again, he'd try a little harder to be civil, strike up a conversation, something like that.

Breaking out of his flight of fancy, Mike turned the radio down, and spoke up. "Where d'ya live?"

"Why?"

He put on his most sincere smile. "It's getting late, you should be getting home…"

"I…" She hesitated. "I guess so."

The lady gave Mike directions to her street, and they were on their way. It was the start of another awkward silence.

All Mike could think about was the girl sitting next to him-what a scumbag he was for forgetting her name-and if what they had was something that Mike could truly be satisfied with. Sure, she was as attractive as they came-and being a mouse made things much easier for interaction. But did Mike _love_ her?

That would take some thought.

When Mike pulled over to her hotel building, the gal didn't move.

"What's wrong with ya now?"

"I...I don't have to go home, you know. I-I wanna stay with you!"

"No can do, sweetie. It's been a crazy night for both of us, get some rest, will ya?"

"But Mike, I-"

"Listen, they're not coming after you. I was the one who screwed them, me! You have nothing to do with all this..."

"Oh yes I do! I saved your behind, back at the theatre…"

"I...I appreciate that, I really do." Mike looked away from her determined face. "But I'm not the kinda guy you want sticking your neck out for, trust me…"

She shook her head. "No….Mike, I think I lo-"

"Please!" Mike almost shouted, loud enough to make the desperation in his tone obvious. He didn't want to hear any of it. "Please, just...go..."

She didn't say anything, but it was clear she got the message. With an increasingly teary complexion, she gave Mike a quick glare, before getting out of the car towards her apartment building.

Mike drove off down the street he had left her on, only glancing at her through the right side mirror. That had been the first girl Mike had pursued into a potential relationship, and he probably just ruined things for good. Would that be the only girl, hell-the only _person_ he'd ever have a chance with? Mike didn't want to know the answer to that, especially when he had a good guess already.

It took a while for Mike to find a suitable alleyway to hide the car in. There was still a chance that the Bear Mafia would find him anyway-but at that point Mike was too tired to care. He'd take his chances-to hell with it all.

Mike crawled under the dashboard of his expensive sports car, which brought him only the start of his crippling debt. As he tried to fall asleep, Mike could feel himself choking up at the hopelessness of it all. How in the world was he going to solve his problems, and assuming he could, would it even be worth the effort?

Soon enough, Mike wept where he knew no-one would hear him.

* * *

 **Hey ya'll, this was a story I uploaded WAY earlier on AO3, but now that Sing finally has a category, I figured I might as well put it here.**

 **Thanks for reading,  
-V**


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